A Pelican at Blandings by Sir P G Wodehouse Read Free Book Online Page A

Duke saw that she was under a misapprehension. Only
to be expected of a female, of course. In the sex to which she
belonged one took muddleheadedness for granted.
    'She isn't American. Chap who did the thing was French,
so she must have been French, too. Stands to reason a fellow
painting in France would have a French model. Probably her
name was Gaby or Brigitte or Mimi or something. And if you
think she's well dressed, you're potty. She hasn't got a ruddy
stitch on.'
    Lady Constance bit her lip and had to pause for a moment
before speaking. The uncharitable thought floated into her
mind that there were times when Alaric was just like her
brother Clarence.
    'I was not alluding to the woman in that picture,' she said
coldly. 'I was thinking of—'
    'Does she remind you of anyone?' the Duke proceeded. It
was only inadvertently that he ever allowed anyone to finish a
sentence. 'I ask because a fellow I know, an American fellow
called Trout, says she's the image of his third wife, while
Emsworth insists that she has a distinct look of that pig of his.'
    'I was thinking—'
    'Something about the expression in her eyes, he said, and
the way she's lying. He said he had seen his pig lying like that
a hundred times. It does it after a heavy meal.'
    'What I was going to say—'
    'And oddly enough I notice quite a resemblance to our
vicar's wife down in Wiltshire. Only the face, of course, for I
never saw her lying in the nude on a mossy bank. I doubt if the
vicar would let her.'
    'If you would just listen, Alaric—'
    'By the way, meant to have told you before, I've invited
Trout here. I thought it was the decent thing to do. His wife
divorced him, and he's carrying the torch for her, so naturally
the more he sees of a picture that reminds him of her, the
better he'll like it. He's arriving this afternoon.'
    Had Lady Constance been conversing with Lord
Emsworth and had he let fall the statement that he had invited
an American fellow called Trout to Blandings Castle without
her permission, something reminiscent of the San Francisco
earthquake must inevitably have resulted. But true to her
policy of keeping the Duke in the best mood of which he was
capable she allowed only the merest suggestion of annoyance
to creep into her words.
    'I wish you would not invite people to my house, Alaric.'
    The Duke, a clear-headed man, saw the objection to this
immediately, and once again the inability of females to reason
anything out impressed itself upon him. It was something, he
believed, to do with the bone structure of their heads.
    'How the devil are they to get here, if they aren't invited?'
    Lady Constance might have retorted that men who invited
themselves were not unknown to her, but she merely heaved a
weary sigh.
    'Who is this Trout?'
    'Aren't you listening? I told you. A Yank. I met him at the
club. We got talking, and he told me about his wife. Not a bad
chap. Potty, of course.'
    'Why do you call him that?'
    'Marrying all those women. As far as I can make out, he
does it every hour on the hour. Do you remember that song
"They call me Otto of roses" in one of those Gaiety shows? "If
you don't like what you've go-to, pick another from the grotto,
that's the motto of Otto of roses". That's Trout.'
    'He sounds charming.'
    'He's all right. Tight all the time, I imagine. At least he was
when I met him. He was crying into a cocktail, and he told me
about his wife. This was his third wife, or it may have been his
fourth. He marries at the drop of a hat. Odd hobby to have,
but everyone to his taste and I suppose he enjoys it.'
    He had given Lady Constance the cue she needed. Pigeonholing
for the moment the rather disquieting thought that in
her capacity of chatelaine of Blandings Castle she was about to
entertain for an indeterminate visit a mentally unbalanced
alcoholic, she said:
    'Don't you think it's time you married again, Alaric?'
    An exasperated snort echoed through the portrait gallery
like a fog horn.
    'That's what you say every blasted